


Balm

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Static Shock
Genre: Homophobic Language, M/M, Rough Sex, issues of consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-05
Updated: 2005-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's either fight or fuck. Or just give in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balm

The solid wall crushed the skin on the tips of his shoulder blades, pushing all the air out his lungs so that he was left startled and hiccupping. Somewhere, Richie could hear the rushing of water, but all around him was heat. Heat and smoke and fire.

Flames clawed at his skin, consuming only the layers of his shirt and licking a sun-pink flush across his chest. He flinched as smoking fingers, hot as that flame, stroked down his chest. His glasses were fogged so that all he could see was red and orange and myopic fuzziness at the edges.

Flames. Flames and smoke.

Sharp laughter coughed in his ear. "Geek," Hotstreak barked before knocking the glasses away. They skittered across the ground like plastic bones. Now Hotstreak filled his gaze, all fire and heat and that aura of smoke that surrounded him when something stoked his blood. Richie could feel it across his bare skin, like that touch of fire as he leaned in.

Instinctively, he put up his hands, flinching again as he pressed through that veil of ashen fog to touch fevered skin. Then his lips were burning, briefly, as a hot wet mouth slid across his. The eerie sensation of spit evaporating instantly left an imprint on his senses, before it was repeated against his jaw, his neck. The flash of a brand across his shoulder and he was lost, clutching at broad shoulders leaving himself open to the fire.

"Slut," Hotstreak said with just as much derision and amusement as "geek" or "nerd" or "sidekick."

Richie wanted to tell him no, that he was wrong, but he bit his lip, sucking in the thickening smoke through his nose and holding it, feeling the burn through his chest as Hotstreak's hands slid to his belt. The smell of burnt flesh, and the leather fell open. A noise escaped the cage of his teeth as a hot, humid, sizzling breath stroked over his crotch.

Red-orange hair crumpled under his hands, feeling too soft and cool against the burning scalp. Another puff of smoke, and hands squeezed his wrists and force his hands to the side. Richie thought to struggle, to break out those moves he'd seen a hundred times in movies and copied, secretly, in his bedroom at night--but then he was spinning, turning, bruising his cheek against the wall and swimming in flames.

"Slut. Geek. Fag." The words wisped from Hotstreak's lips, curling over Richie's skin before filling his ears. Meaningless, all of them--phrases heard a dozen times a day from guys bigger and tougher than this bang baby, but never in this context, never as foreplay.

Trails of fire broke across his hips, chasing the slide of fabric as his pants and underwear were skimmed down his legs. Bare skin to bare skin, it was so much worse, the smoke like fingers and tongues everywhere as Hotstreak held him still with one hand. The skin around Richie's nails tore as he dug them into the wall. He could make out the individual pores of the brick, covered with institutional-green paint and felt-pen tattoos, so blindingly close to his eyes. Even here, it was too warm, baked by the rising heat around them.

Lube wouldn't have helped, and Richie shuddered to think of what Hotstreak's spit would be like. He struggled, he couldn't NOT, as fire tore though his body and up his spine. He arched and writhed, snapping with bared teeth as hands closed around his wrists again, sound breaking from his throat to mix with slutgeekfagwhorefuckinggeekfaggonnafuckyou--

He wanted to scream as a touch of flame licked at his cock, as something burned like hyper-cooled ice burst inside, scalding him all over as he came across the brick. He wanted to say no, but he couldn't form words.

The absence of heat was just as painful as the fire as he was left suddenly, alone and empty. A hint of laughter, the shuffle of fabric and smell of brimstone faded with a scornful but breathless, "Later, loser." The glass broke again under heavy footsteps, and the crunch of gravel outside followed the footsteps to silence.

Later. Always. Again. Probably until he finally found the way to get out those words he bit back. There'd always be a later. Richie just never knew when.

He pushed himself off the brick, brushing at the ashes that clung to his skin. He kicked off his shoes and pants, hooking his socks with his thumbs to also send them flying in a pile vaguely near the benches. He turned the faucet as hot as it would go, letting the steam wash away the dark streaks across his skin. It felt almost cool.

Virgil was just starting to undress once Richie returned to the locker room. He looked up with a pained smile Richie could feel from across the room. "Sorry I'm late, bro. I had business." A flash of blue-black and yellow being stuffed quickly into a backpack, as though Richie needed the reminder of just who his best friend was.

Richie nodded, turning to his own locker to hope he still had an extra shirt stored away.

"Hey, Richie?"

Virgil's voice was soft, that almost whining tone he used when he wasn't sure if he was poking a sore spot but he was sure as hell going to poke there anyway.

"Yeah?"

"You should be more careful with your glasses. I almost stepped on them."

The cool plastic curled in Richie's palm, and he reflexively wiped them on his towel before placing them on his nose. He looked over at Virgil's face, the haze of a new scuff making him a ghost. "Thanks. Bro."

Virgil's smile disappeared behind a tumble of cloth and hair as he quickly shed his clothes.


End file.
